


I Mean It

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, completely consensual sex, fluff that disintegrates into porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who would have thought that a mere several hours after returning from Delphi, Drift and Ratchet would find themselves like this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Mean It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts).



> Not much to say other than enjoy! :B

"You saved me."

"No — I mean, yeah, but, _you_ saved _me._ If you hadn't caught —"

"And that wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't saved me _first_ , kid." Drift was about to protest, but Ratchet held up a single (blue) finger, halting the third-in-command's words. "Just take the compliment. You won't hear them from me often."

"Is that so?" Drift asked, hooking an ankle over his thigh. Beneath him, the recharge slab creaked. "And how often do you invite another crewmate to your habsuite for a shared drink? It tasted great, by the way."

"Even less frequently. In fact — you're the first."

Drift felt a sly smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Then it's an honor."

"Hmm." Ratchet climbed out of his chair, set his empty glass on the nearby desk, then took a seat beside Drift. "I give you a lot of scrap, don't I?"

That was an understatement. "Yeah, sometimes. Occasionally."

Ratchet hesitated, then said, gruffly, "I do it because I care, kid. I hope you don't take all of my — my _grousing_ and _needling_ too seriously."

Drift shrugged, and the movement caused his pauldron to scrape against Ratchet's frame. "Maybe I do, but I still think you're one of the _wiser_ people onboard this ship."

"Even with my atheistic tendencies?"

"Mm-hm. You're my favorite heathen, Ratch."

Ratchet coughed. "Maybe that engex was stronger than I thought —"

But Drift laughed and clasped a hand on the CMO's shoulder. "No, no — I mean it. I do. You say you don't give compliments very often? Well — I do. But I'll let you in on a secret: I don't usually _mean_ it."

"Color me unsurprised."

"I like you, Ratchet. Quite a bit."

"And you actually mean that."

"I do."

And a moment later, Ratchet's lips were touching his — soft and warm, tingling with the charge of imbibed engex. It was a gentle kiss, heavy with a hesitance and — was it yearning? Was that what Drift felt, pulsing from the CMO's electromagnetic field? How long had Ratchet —?

Drift pulled away, feeling the slow spread of a smile over his face. "See, now that was unexpected."

"Sorry, kid."

"But not unwelcome. Uh — far from it, actually." The third-in-command fiddled with the scabbards at his hips, unclipping one, then the other. They joined his Great Sword at the foot of the recharge slab, and without his weapons Drift felt — naked, almost, especially under the scrutinizing eye of Ratchet himself. "Tonight wasn't just going to be drinks, was it?"

"It was, but it doesn't have to be," Ratchet said, and Drift noticed his already-gravelly voice sounded hoarser than usual. "Drift, you can leave now if you want. You can leave and we can pretend this never happened."

"No," Drift murmured. "I want —" Their lips met again, moving and melding against one another, and whatever Drift was going to say evaporated in his throat. Black fingers twined with blue as the third-in-command guided himself onto his back, deepening the kiss as he pulled Ratchet on top of him, blocky medic knees astraddle curvy speedster thighs. Drift's fans powered on, their volume steadily increasing as the CMO's hands wandered over his frame, digits sliding over his freshly-repaired and repainted plating. Ratchet's lips moved to his audial, then swept along his jaw, mouthing down the cables and fuel lines of his neck. Drift heard himself moan, fingers latching into Ratchet's armor.

"Drift, I want to —"

"Opening up," the third-in-command hissed, and with those words Drift retracted the cover to his port. Already he could feel it lubricating, inner walls hot and wet. Ratchet laved another sloppy kiss to Drift's throat, then Drift heard the hydraulic _snickt_ of the CMO's panel folding away.

Drift felt a hand grope blindly at his pelvic span. "Other one too," Ratchet grunted. "I'm gonna ride you, kid."

"Oh, Primus." Without hesitation, the cover protecting Drift's spike slid aside, and it pressurized between them, poking hotly against Ratchet's inner thigh. "This is a dream, isn't it? We both drank too much engex and fell into recharge." But the talented hand working along his spike was most definitely _not_ a hallucination, nor was the bite of dentae on his collar. "Oh, god."

"Still with the religious crud, even in bed." And with those words and a final pump of his hand, Ratchet lowered himself, taking the head of Drift's spike into his already-dripping port. "I'll let it pass — _hhh_ — this time."

As casual as the statement was, it implied that this sort of thing could _happen again_. Drift tried not to think about it — and he couldn't, not as Ratchet sank down and Drift clawed at the edge of the recharge slab, doing all he could not to thrust hard and fast into that wet, clenching space. Gradually his spike was enveloped by the velvety heat of the CMO's port, calipers rippling along its length, until their pelvic housings touched and Ratchet was fully seated.

The third-in-command must have shuttered his optics at some point; he cracked one open, only to be met by the sight of Ratchet smiling — _actually fragging smiling_ — and for the first time since he could remember, Drift found himself speechless. "Ratch —"

"Second thoughts, kid?"

A vehement shake of his head.

"I didn't think so." With those words, Ratchet rose, Drift's spike leaving his port entirely. The former Decepticon whined, but then Ratchet was rutting the swollen lips of his port along the length of Drift's spike, blue fingers meanwhile stroking the base, spreading lubricant — and then the CMO sunk downward once more, taking in all of Drift in one quick motion.

Drift shouted an obscenity — he wasn't sure which one, and mostly likely it was a garbled combination of several — and his hands shot up off the surface of the recharge slab, latching onto Ratchet's waist. The CMO's port rippled tightly around his spike, hugging it in all the right places, and he lifted himself again, dentae bared, optics dimmed.

The visual feedback was too much, and so Drift switched it off. Instead, he simply _heard_ and _felt_ : the dual roar of cooling fans, struggling to keep up with their building heat — the wet sounds of Ratchet's port as it slid up and down his spike — the hot trickle of lubricant that spattered over Drift's pelvic armor — the sharp rasp of Ratchet's plating against his own. He became lost in the sensations, only faintly aware of the way his digits grasped tighter and tighter to the CMO's waist.

How had they even arrived at this point? Their shuttle had only just docked several hours earlier, returning from Delphi, and right up until Drift had started bleeding out his optics, he and Ratchet had been trading some rather vitriolic barbs. And now — this.

Drift rebooted his vision, just to make sure this wasn't an _extremely detailed_ recharge hallucination, and sure enough, there was Ratchet, riding the third-in-command's spike, mouth agape, thighs stretched wide over Drift's hips, shimmering lubricant sloshing freely from the CMO's port as he dropped down yet again. It was Ratchet's turn to be rendered speechless, and Drift realized that he was loving every second of it. His grip tight on the other's waist, the former Decepticon thrust, starting a steady counter-rhythm to Ratchet's movements. He felt his spike hit the roof of the CMO's port — once, twice, a third time — and Ratchet snarled, spinal strut bowing outward as his hands turned into claws, clutching sharply at Drift's red-and-white pauldrons.

"Everything — okay?" Drift hissed, stilling himself, if only for a moment.

"Don't you fragging stop now, kid," Ratchet growled, static lacing his words. "Don't you _dare_."

Drift happily obliged. He was in control now, with Ratchet shuddering above him, and relentlessly he thrust, spike cleaving through twitching calipers, displacing spurts of lubricant from the CMO's swollen port. The sounds Ratchet was making were nearly as wonderful as the feel of their coupling: sobbing moans that Drift hadn't known Ratchet was capable of emitting, curse words in several languages — and yet, Drift noted with a wry grin, never a deity's name.

The third-in-command felt himself coming undone and, judging by the tremble in the thighs above him, so was Ratchet. Drift dug his digits into the CMO's hip plating and thrust hard and fast, sheathing himself completely in Ratchet's spasming port. A shiver ripped through Ratchet's frame, and then his body snapped taught, fingers jabbing into Drift's armor, internal components of his port clamping down hard over Drift's spike. Ratchet overloaded with a shout — it sounded an awful lot like Drift's name — and the third-in-command thrust fiercely, gaze set on the CMO's face: a look of pure rapture, optics unfocused, mouth open.

Drift hissed as climax slammed his frame, setting every nervecircuit in his body afire with blissful, carnal sensation. Transfluid seeped from Ratchet's port, dripping freely over Drift's pelvic array — and then they collapsed together, the space between their bodies reduced to nothing but heat and a sticky slickness.

Over the rattling of their fans, Drift heard Ratchet chuckle.

"What?" the third-in-command asked, his processor still spinning from what had been the most circuit-blowing overload he'd experienced in recent memory. "What's so funny?"

Ratchet groaned as he propped himself up on his elbows, an apparent attempt to take some of his weight off Drift's body. "Just — this. Us. The fact that we're still alive, and we're doing _this_. Kid, if I'd have thought, oh, ten hours ago, that this would be happening, I would've brought myself to Rung, to get my brain checked out."

Drift scoffed as he ran a hand along the leading edge of Ratchet's chevron. "Meaning?"

"Meaning maybe I should be more honest with you." The grin returned to Ratchet's lips, and he said, "I like you, kid. Maybe more than I can admit to myself."

The confession made Drift's spark soar within its casing. "So does this mean there will be a next time?"

"If you want it."

"Primus, _yes_. Yes, I do." Drift felt himself smile — and it was a _genuine_ smile, the kind of smile he could feel reach his optics. "But only if you admit that we're still alive after Delphi thanks to you."

"Kid, don't you even start." Ratchet tried to stifle his own grin, but he was failing miserably. "Which reminds me, how the hell did you get on the roof…?"

* * *

_fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
